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before you have a stroke,” Phil counseled good-naturedly.
    Phil was a tall man in his mid-fifties. His warm eyes and close-cut salt and pepper hair gave him a look of sophistication and maturity. Virginia was a tall slender woman with short blond hair and deep-set blue eyes. Although she was Phil’s age, she looked younger.
    John sank onto the leather couch next to Phil, shaking his head. “If Lena were still around, she would know what to say and Johnny would listen. He
always
listened to her. But no matter what I say, it comes out wrong. I just can’t sugarcoat the words ’I don’t want you to marry this girl.’ Lena Cirone, John’s deceased wife, had died two years earlier.
    Phil crossed his legs and spoke calmly. “John, Lena would want Johnny to be happy, and that means that you have to let him live his own life.” He glanced at his wife, hoping for a little emotional reinforcement to help keep John calm.
    Virginia had to bite her tongue. She believed that Phil was probably right, but she also felt strongly that, if Lena were alive, she might have put some considerable pressure on Johnny to go to his local parish priest for a little counseling. Marrying inside the Catholic Church had been as important to Lena as it was to Virginia.
    Uncle John took a deep breath and spoke defiantly. “I can’t watch my son take his wedding vows in an Episcopalian service. I’ve decided that I’m not going to the wedding.”
    “Now John,” Phil said, “that’s a bit extreme. Not going to your son’s wedding is something that you’d regret for the rest of your life, and you might drive a wedge between Johnny and you. Who knows—he might even quit the business.”
    Uncle John glanced sideways, grunted, and lowered his voice. “And maybe that’s why Suzanna—”
    “Suzanne, John,” Virginia corrected. “Her name is Suzanne.”
    Growing more restless and agitated, John stood again and walked across the oriental carpet and stood to the right of the fireplace. He gazed through the tall double window set into the den’s knotty pine paneling. His stare was vacant, not focused on the fresh snowfall or the frozen waters of Macy Channel beyond.
    “Like I was saying, maybe that’s what this Farnsworth girl really wants—to take Johnny away from the House of Cirone. Maybe her father is waiting to give him a position with one of his own companies.” Uncle John covered his forehead with his right hand. “What can I say? This is a nightmare.”
    The Martignettis knew all too well that Johnny’s heart wasn’t in the business, at least not totally, after seven full years with the House of Cirone, the ladies’ eveningwear manufacturing company founded by his grandfather. It was always assumed that he would work for the company after graduating from Villanova, and, always the dutiful son, he hadn’t disappointed his father. He’d joined the business and done everything Uncle John had asked of him.
    Johnny was big and burly, and at twenty-nine, he was an honest, hardworking man—and a bit of a teddy bear despite his muscular build and his love of contact sports.
    He was loyal to his family, but after his mother died, Johnny had been completely devastated. A friend introduced him to Suzanne, and, to his father’s chagrin, the couple had gotten serious very quickly. Lena had been Johnny’s protector from early childhood, and most people who knew him thought that Suzanne and her world outside New York were simply outlets for his grief.
    Uncle John wheeled around to face his hosts, his arms spread wide in frustration. “What else could we have done to instill a strong Catholic faith in Johnny? Chaminade is the best Catholic high school for boys. The Marianist Brothers’ teachings have guided me all my life, and I thought that it would be the same for my son. You know, we recently met with the board to discuss funding for a new athletic center in Lena’s honor. And it wasn’t even my idea. It was Johnny’s. I know